Lincoln's Sons
by WhimsicalShmoo
Summary: "It was a flaw, a desire that all Nations had: to be Human, if only for a while." Companion-fic to From Child to Hero


**Gift-fic written** Verin Mystal. **I'm sorry this took so long, and I hope it is to your liking! It got a little darker than I had intended ^^'**

* * *

As long as he could recall, America had always had a soft spot for children. Many would say it was because he was still much a child himself, in appearances if nothing else. No longer a young child as he once was, true, but in his mid-teens if he had to hazard a guess.

Mentally, he often felt much older. Years and years beyond his looks, as all Nations were. Older, wise beyond his years, but a child in the grand scope of things. England was infinitely older, so much so, and even he had nothing on the oldest Nations, like China. It was unfathomable to even think of all those years.

A child in appearance, and a child in mentality as country. It was no wonder he would feel comfortable with other youths, other children.

But if you were to ask America himself, he would answer in a far different way, albeit giving the same basic answer. The thing America really liked about children was their innocence. Everything they did was genuine, not premeditated and calculating as it grew to be with adults. They had no false pretenses, but said what they meant, and acted as they felt. No planning, no over-thinking and lacing their actions with hidden agendas. They were simple, something America had more and more difficulty finding as he grew older.

Being a Nation was not simple. It never was, never is, and never would be. But that didn't stop Nations from wishing it would be, wishing it _could_ be, especially the younger ones. Being around children let America indulge in those characteristics inside himself, to relax, and forget the world if for only a little while. To let go and pretend he was actually his age, was actually so carefree and happy as children so tended to be.

To forget he was a Nation, and not a Human. To join in with Humans, and pretend to be one of them. It is a mistake that all Nations make, at some point or another.

* * *

"Father!" Lincoln looked up at the shout, startled out of his work. America looked around, as well, awoken from his nap. The president mentally cursed to himself. It had taken so long to get America to relax and close his eyes, let alone actually pass into slumber. And he had gotten hardly fifteen minutes in!

Exasperated, he crossed the room to open the door. His two youngest children spilled in, obviously excited. America smiled upon seeing them, and shifted position so that he was sitting up straighter.

"Hey," he greeted wearily, rubbing at his eyes. The two moved over to America like metal to a magnet, climbing up on the couch to sit beside him.

"Careful," Lincoln warned half-heartedly, standing off to the side. Watching his boys sitting with America—the Nation in question looking only sleepy for a change—he could almost forget they were on the brink of a crisis. "He hasn't been feeling well lately."

"I'm fine," America assured, placing a hand on each of the kids' heads to ruffle their hair. "It's great seeing you guys again. Did you want to play?"

The older one, William, glanced dubiously at the young Nation's legs. "Can you?"

"A little," America assured, jiggling his foot a little as if to prove the truth of his statement. "Just hand me those." He gestured to his crutches, lying just behind Thomas, the younger boy.

Grinning, Thomas managed to maneuver the wooden sticks so that they were in reach of the blond.

"Thanks," America returned the expression, shuffling to his feet, as the two boys slid off the couch to stand beside him.

"You really should try and sleep some more," Lincoln smiled, fondly, not for a second believing his words would be followed.

"I can't sleep now," America laughed, making his way towards the door. "We've got to protect the White House from invaders!"

Lincoln barely stifled a chuckle, waving as the trio made their way outdoors.

"Invaders, indeed!" Willie confirmed, leading the way outdoors confidently. "We'll teach them a thing or two about messing with us!"

"We sure will." America kept the charade going, moving along after the older boy, Thomas by his side.

"Of course," Willie grinned a boyish grin, glancing up and backwards a bit at the blond as he walked. They were nearing the exit of the White House now. Onto the lawns. "We're the good guys, right, Mr. America? And the good guys always win!"

"That's right," the Nation returned with just the slightest catch to his voice. The good guys always win…the _hero_ always wins. But what kind of hero was he, not able to stop his own people from starting all this? Not able to save them? Wasn't that what heroes did: save people?

He was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice at first when his crutches began to scrape against grass and dirt instead of stone and wood. It was the boys' whispers that brought him back to his senses. They were running around him excitedly, describing all the make believe villains heading towards them at this very moment.

"The South, right?" Thomas asked in his innocent slur, excitement welling up. "We'll keep 'em away! We'll show 'em!"

America froze momentarily, frowning. "The South aren't the bad guys," he insisted, before trying to put the cheer back in his voice and brush it off. "They're just naughty children…like you two!" He dropped his crutches, falling to his knees to tickle them as best he could, two at a time.

They squealed in laughter for a while, before sharing a look of conspiracy.

"Uh oh," America exclaimed in feigned alarm, tickling harder. "What was that just now? Are you two planning something?" And as if he had delivered a cue by those last few words, the two of them struggled up, launching themselves into a tickle attack of revenge.

With a half laugh, half scream, America allowed himself to fall backward under their joint weight. Initially he fought back, trying his best to regain his earlier advantage, but eventually he gave in, dissolving into a fit of giggles.

"Stop, stop!" he shouted between chuckles, trying his best to protect his sides. "I surrender! I give up!"

"You can't surrender," Willie laughed, renewing his assault. "You're our country, you're stronger than that!"

America felt another wave of unease then, as if someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water over him. But he pushed it back, instead gaining a mischievous grin. "Oh, am I?" He questioned, suddenly solemn.

"Yeah!" the boys chorused, preparing for his next move.

Suddenly, America sat up, flipping the boys over in the quick movement, and turning to tickle them into submission. They laughed hysterically, writhing on the floor in the throes of rapid giggles.

"Do you give up?" he questioned, after a few minutes had passed, his eyes bright with true merriment for the first time in months. "Ready to surrender?"

"N-n…never!" the two insisted between fits of laughter. He continued his assault for another several minutes, before flopping down on the ground beside them, tired.

"Truce?" he suggested, smiling at Lincoln's sons.

"Truce," they agreed, near on simultaneously, laying back to catch their breath.

It was times like these America treasured. Lying on the grass, tired, looking up at the bright blue sky and watching the clouds float by overhead. Times that he would give anything to hold onto, to live in just a little while longer, so that he would not have to go back to the war and the harshness of reality. So that he could just be content and happy for a little while. To just forget, for a minute, the weight of expectations and worries on his shoulders. The weight of a Nation.

But such times went by too quickly. America knew this: really, he did. Here one moment, gone the next. More often than not gone forever.

* * *

America couldn't believe it. He held Thomas firmly against his shoulder, rubbing his back in what he hoped was a comforting manner. The motions were awkward and clumsy, but he tried his best. Tried his best as a child playing an adult. It was a role he had to play more and more often these days. But he was never the care-giver, never the comforter: always the comforted.

Lincoln had refused comfort, despite how badly America wanted to give it. Despite how much he wanted to do something, _anything_ to pay back the man who was always giving. To him, to his family, to their country.

And so he had turned to Thomas, trying his best to cheer him up and console him while his parents were otherwise occupied, locked away in their own corners of grief. Lincoln quite literally. He hadn't emerged from his son's bedroom in days.

A son lost before his time, dead before his parents. That was something that should never happen once, let alone twice.

A knock on the door brought America's attention back from his thoughts.

"Yes?" he called out, hating how weak his voice sounded. He wanted to be strong, strong for Thomas, as Lincoln had always been for him.

"It's Robert," the voice returned. Robert, Lincoln's oldest son. He had been only six when Edward died, all those years ago. Old enough to know, but not old enough to handle it. Though he had miraculously. Only to be faced with the death of another of his little brothers. The death of Willie, such a bright, kind boy.

"Come in." America called, and he did, awkwardly. As if he know longer fit in this family, this disintegrating family. Two members down, so young…

"Mother says supper is ready." His tone was strained, overly formal. He glanced at America warily, searchingly. How old was he now? Seventeen…eighteen? Older than America? Younger?

"Thank you," America returned, in what he hoped was a polite and friendly way. He couldn't bring himself to smile. Not now, not at something as minute as that. Instead he focused on Thomas, patting his back. Almost nine. Better than six, but hardly old enough to have to deal with this. Was there ever an age at which one should have to deal with this? No, not really. "It's time to eat. Why don't you run along? I'll be there in a little: there's something I wanted to talk with your older brother about."

Robert stiffened at that, looking up at the blond. Accusingly, almost.

Sniffling, Thomas nodded, doing his best to give a tearful, toothy smile, before hurrying off to the kitchen in that rushed manner children often have.

"What is it that you want to say to me, Mr. America?" Robert's words were polite, albeit terse, but his tone was harsh. Bitter. Bitterness towards what, America wondered.

"I'm sorry we're not closer," the Nation began, clasping his hands together on one of his knees, so that he would not fidget. "It would make this a lot easier. We are in war, Robert. Your father is busy, very busy with everything. And I…I am not capable of doing as much as I would like to for your family. They need help, strength and guidance. Your father is only able to do so much. All I ask is that you are there for them, as much as you can be. I understand you are in law school, and aren't here often…but if you could do as much as you can. Write letters even. Your family needs you. Your father, your brother, your _mother_…they all need you. Do not make her lose another son."

Robert frowned, the expression deepening throughout his Nation's speech, especially towards the end. "With all due respect, _sir_, this is family business. I don't know who you are…hell, _what_ you are, exactly, but…this is something that you should not take liberties to involve yourself in."

"Robert, don't…" America trailed off, thinking of how to phrase what he wanted to express. "Don't bother with 'sir' and all that. You can call me Alfred. I'm around your age, I…"

"Are you?" Robert cut in, the slightest edge of bewilderment tempering his hostility. "You've been around for years, decades even. Perhaps longer. No one really knows. Are you even human?"

"In ways, I am more than human," the blond tried to explain. "In other ways…not at all. I am America…I am this country. But I am also a person. _I am_."

The last two words sounded odd, misplaced somehow, with a strange desperation. He was convincing himself, not Lincoln's son. "I'm sorry for being so direct, but I worry. And I don't know what will happen to me in these coming years. I just _don't know_."

Robert was silent for a long time. He sat down and stood up again, paced a bit. Looked at America, _really_ looked at him, as if trying to peal back all the layers and find out what he was underneath all that. If he was at all Human, as he claimed to be.

Finally he spoke. "I've been considering joining the war for awhile now. Mother…my mother doesn't want me to. It is as you said, she does not want to risk losing another son. But I want to…I want to _help_. And people expect it of me. Why shouldn't I join, when other sons are?"

"Because you need to stay out of it, for your family's sake. You can do this country much more good alive than dead: an even more grief-stricken president isn't going to help anyone." The smile on his face was soft, fragile. Grim. He looked so breakable in that moment, his mentality, his expression, as if he would break at the drop of a hat. Break in two. "Soldiers die in this war. They _die_, they don't fight."

Robert paled a little at his Nation's tone, but remained firm. "But I want to fight for my country, for the good of my family, for the good of _everyone_. To help bring those Southerners back and force them to see sense."

"This war is _senseless_." America returned, more harshly than he had intended to. "Death…death and bad feelings. That's all that's coming of it."

"No, you're wrong!" the other boy shouted, indignation and anger clear in his words. "It's for justice, and liberty…it's for everything this country stands for!"

He fell silent then. Silently fuming, thinking? America couldn't tell, couldn't find words to break the silence with as it continued to stretch. It was Robert who eventually did.

"This war…it must be hard for you. I'm sorry for how I reacted. It was unfair of me—"

"No," America interrupted. "You've just lost your brother. Don't blame yourself, for _anything_. We all have enough to worry and doubt these days without doubting ourselves."

"Thank you," Robert responded after a shorter pause. "I think." And with that he left for supper, leaving the Nation to his own thoughts for a while, before he followed.

* * *

A wedding. America had never before been to a wedding. It was a happy thing, full of white and innocence. Happiness. How wrong it seemed with Lincoln dead, that his family could forget all that. To some extent, anyway. His wife could never quite forget, but she managed it for the wedding. When her oldest son and now daughter-in-law were giving their vows, she smiled. The first genuine smile she'd given in years, and perhaps her last.

America had grown alienated from the tragic threesome since they left for Chicago after Lincoln's death. He'd felt an odd twinge of emotion when Grant told him about the invitation. His acceptance had been automatic. His thoughts on the matter had taken much longer to resolve themselves. Was he ready to see this family again, ready to see these three people that were living reminders of perhaps the most painful time period in his history?

But he had to go. It felt right, as much as his nerves frayed with a multitude of emotion and degrees of apprehension. It felt necessary. Proper.

Mrs. Lincoln was doing better than he could have hoped. Smiling, even though the expression never really reached her eyes. Living, trying her best to appreciate what she still had left. Her Thomas, her little Tad.

Thomas had been ecstatic to see him again, and he said as much, in his awkward way of speech. He thumped America on the back, and grinned, his toothy grin much bigger and grown now. Fifteen years old. Older than America? Surely not. He must be younger.

Robert had even smiled at America. Not that tight-lipped, forced excuse for a grin he often showed the other, but a true one, a happy one. And America returned it, full-heartedly. He made his way over to the other, a grown man now, twenty-five years of age. And he hugged him, in that one-armed, manly way. Because he couldn't show his appreciation enough, his appreciation for that smile and all it signified. Especially from Robert.

Grant, standing next to him, had clapped him on the shoulder, in an unvoiced I-told-you-so. See, it was all right, wasn't it? Everything was all right, and surely would be if it wasn't already.

And then they had gotten the letter, only three years later. America knew that was a while, knew that three years was a stretch of happiness for the remaining Lincolns. It was a long time for Humans.

But to him it was short. So short. Death by pneumonia, tuberculosis: both causes had been listed. America didn't know what to think. No one did.

Thomas. Dead. He was only eighteen. Older than America? Maybe. Younger in so many ways.

America had insisted on going to the funeral, and Grant hadn't stopped him. The Nation was so sick of funerals. So horribly sick of them. Especially for this family. This poor family.

Mary was broken. Those first two sons had been enough, causing the first cracks. Lincoln's death had widened those fissures, weakened them.

Thomas had tried so hard to be the glue during those last six year. Trying to keep the pieces from splitting any further, from completely breaking. And now he was gone.

Robert was cold. Much colder than America ever remembered him being. He didn't laugh, didn't so much as attempt a smile. All of his younger siblings dead. The siblings his parents had always been closer to. Did Robert feel guilt about that? Being the one to stay on this earth when all his other (more deserving?) siblings left before their time? America couldn't bring himself to ask, couldn't fathom planting that seed in Robert's mind if it hadn't taken root already.

"I have a family," Robert said, voice tight, controlled. Years later? How America lost scope of Human years. "I won't put up with her any longer."

"She's your mother," America responded, slightly aghast. "You would put your own mother in an asylum?"

"It is for her own good," Robert insisted. There was something in his voice. Upset, anger? "Besides, how unfortunate it must be for her to have to deal with me. Me, the one she was never close with. I bet she'd trade me in for her dear Thomas in a minute. Even William."

"That's not true," America assured, the best he could. But really, was that the case? He himself had thought the same once. Such a tragic, tragic family these Lincolns were.

…

"I'm bad luck," Robert stated to America after President McKinley's assassination. America was quiet for awhile, stiff, searching for words to say. Lincoln's oldest son was fifty-eight now. Older than America? In appearance, definitely. Perhaps even otherwise.

"First my brothers, then my father," Robert's voice had a level of panic in it, a hysteria so faint, but so clearly there. Fear, anger. Self-blame. "And it wouldn't end with my family. Garfield…and now McKinley. I'm bad luck to everyone around me, all the presidents."

"You can't be," America shook his head, saying those same words he had so many years before, after President Garfield's assassination. Robert had been thirty-seven back then when he first voiced his concerns. Nearly thirty-eight.

"I am," the conviction was new. How could America dissuade such conviction that had been building up for years now? So many years.

"You can't blame yourself for all this," America insisted, the sincerity in his voice nearing pleading. "You _can't_…it's not your fault."

Robert muttered a humorless laugh, shaking his head. That was his only reaction. It was sad, and wrong, and it made something deep inside America hurt. The pain only deepened when Robert left the room, not so much as looking back.

Robert died a couple decades later. He lived a full life: eighty-two years. America could hear that laugh in his mind, so clearly. Hopelessly forlorn, but accepting of it, and willing to pretend everything was otherwise. Because was he really the victim? Was he ever? He got to live, when so many around him died.

America went to the funeral, past caring about invitations. It was only right to go, having seen off the rest of the Lincoln's onto their final trip. He hoped this would be the last funeral he would have to attend for quite sometime. At the very least, it would be the last of the Lincolns. An oddly peaceful conclusion to such a long story, filled with such tragedy and heart-break.

America hadn't cried at any of the Lincolns' deaths. He had been distraught after Lincoln's assassination, horrified and upset by each of the other deaths in turn. But somehow, somehow no tears had come of it. Perhaps he'd cried all his tears back then, during the Civil War. The Civil War…he knew what the name meant, knew why it meant what it did, but the name seemed laughable. There had been nothing 'civil' about it.

But it had been decades since then. Nearly a life-time for a human, but only a decent stretch for a Nation. Not much at all.

Yet, he had changed so much in that time. Been through things, seen things, that he never wanted to have to see. The Great War. It was impossible to come out of something like that unchanged.

He had thought himself past crying. It had been decades since the last time he'd cried, despite everything. He was on his way to adulthood as a Nation: there was no time for tears.

Tears. Such a childish thing. A childish thing, shed by children. For children? Because that's really what there Humans were, these Lincolns. Children, so young. So hopeful and determined.

Perhaps it was that thought that drove the single drop of saltwater from the not-quite-so-young Nation's eye. Perhaps it was the fact this was a conclusion, a final goodbye to the Lincolns and the pain they so reminded him of, as well as a goodbye to the fond memories they had shared, back at the beginning. Of course the line had not ended. It had gone on through Robert's daughters, though the name had changed. There were relatives, surely, more branches on the tree.

But it was an end to the Lincolns as he knew them, the good and the bad. The days he had spent playing with Willie and Thomas. The hours he had spent talking to Robert, trying to convince him he wasn't cursed. The trips he had taken to each of their funerals.

Nations could not be Humans. They should not love them personally, not develop relationships beyond Nation and countryman. It never ended well, never ended happily. Because Humans would die.

Humans were children to countries. Naïve, idealistic, optimistic and driven. They hoped, and they dreamed, such magnificent and sometimes ridiculous feats. For awhile, you could spend time with them, and try to forget the worries of being a Nation. Try and pretend you were one of them, without the weight of a country on your shoulders. Without the expectations of the world.

But in the end, children grew up. Humans died, and faded. It was a temporary bliss, a temporary retreat. But it was a sanctuary Nations would never completely avoid. For all it's transience, for all the pain it brought, it was still desirable, if only for the little while it lasted. Much as amazing days were always enjoyed, despite the aftermath and hard times that might follow after, dark and dreary in comparison.

It was a flaw, a desire that all Nations had: to be Human, if only for a while.

* * *

**Historical Notes: Lincoln and Mary were very permissive parents. Their household was a very child-centered one. Mary made a point of holding birthday parties for each of the children, even though such things weren't very common back then. Upon moving into the White House, Robert was away at school, but William and Thomas had fun playing in it, sliding down the banisters and whatnot: the roof of the White House was even converted into a play area for them. **

**Robert Todd, Lincoln's first son, was always a bit more withdrawn from the family than the other boys, being away at school and whatnot. He was emotionally distant from his father, having spent less time with him as a child (Lincoln was busy with his career as a lawyer and politician), and ****he left home at 16 to attend Phillips Exeter and Harvard University. Reserved and shy, but kind, he was not a fan of the public attention he received. Although he enjoyed it a little at first, the constant worry of how he presented himself in the public's eye was troublesome. Lincoln's political enemies were very critical of Robert's failure to serve, though he did interrupt his schooling at Harvard to serve briefly on General Ulysses S. Grant's staff in 1865.**

**Edward, Lincoln's second son, died at the age of 3 years and 11 months in 1850, before Abraham Lincoln became president. **

**William Wallace, Lincoln's third son, was very friendly, bright, and mature for his age, but that did not stop him from joining his younger brother, Thomas, in pranks and play. He was intelligent and sweet, but did not enjoy public attention. He died in 1862 of a typhoid-like fever at age 11, presumably contracted from contaminated water in the river the children would play in. His death was harsh blow to both his parents: Lincoln grieved silently in his son's bedroom for 2 days, and Mary wailed for days.**

**Thomas, Lincoln's fourth son, was his father's favourite, especially after the death of William. Lincoln called him 'Tad' for short, because he thought he resembled a tadpole at birth. Thomas was cheerful and energetic, though not as intelligent as his brothers. He didn't learn to read until after his father's death. He also had a speech impediment, which made it difficult for other's to understand him, though Lincoln could understand him perfectly. **

**After Lincoln's assassination, Thomas and Mary moved to Chicago with Robert, where Robert began to practice as a lawyer. When Thomas died in 1871 at age 18 ( of tuberculosis or pneumonia) Mary went mad with grief. Robert had never been very close with his mother. He had her briefly committed to an asylum for her "spending" habits in 1875. **

**Robert, ****more public-spirited than a public person, served under Presidents James Garfield and Chester Arthur as Secretary of War (1881-85) and later as Minister to Great Britain (1889-92). His presence at the assassinations of both Garfield and President William McKinley made him self-conscious about "a certain fatality about the presidential function when I am present." He served as president of the Pullman Company and led a very quiet life prior to his death in 1926. **

Timeline 

(taken from h t t p : / / showcase (dot) netins (dot) net / web / creative / Lincoln / timeline (dot) htm)

**August 1, 1843**  
Lincoln's son Robert Todd Lincoln is born in Springfield, Illinois.

**March 10, 1846**  
Lincoln's son Edward Baker Lincoln is born in Springfield, Illinois.

**February 1, 1850**  
Lincoln's son Edward dies at age 3 years and 11 months in Springfield, Illinois.

**December 21, 1850**  
Lincoln's son William Wallace Lincoln is born in Springfield, Illinois.

**April 4, 1853**  
Lincoln's son Thomas (Tad) Lincoln is born in Springfield, Illinois.

**February 20, 1862**  
Lincoln's son William dies at age 11 in the White House.

**April 15, 1865**  
Lincoln dies at age 56 in Washington, D.C. after being shot by an assassin.

**September 24, 1868**  
Lincoln's son Robert marries Mary Eunice Harlan in Washington, D.C.

**July 15, 1871**  
Lincoln's son Thomas (Tad) dies at age 18 in Chicago, Illinois.

**July 16, 1882**  
Lincoln's widow Mary dies at age 63 in Springfield, Illinois.

**July 26, 1926**  
Lincoln's son Robert dies at age 82 in Manchester, Vermont.

The information I used is from:

h t t p : / / histclo (dot) com / pres / Ind19 / lincoln / lin-child (dot) html

and

h t t p : / / www (dot) mrlincolnswhitehouse (dot) org / index (dot) asp


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